


He Says You are Sublime

by bazemayonnaise (Ninjaninaiii)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: "And then across the sea to England" aka they live in London so sue me, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Relationship, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Seine, Sharing a Bed, Undercover Missions, Undercover as a Couple, muslim valjean, this is a love letter to Switzerland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 14:15:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14137749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/pseuds/bazemayonnaise
Summary: [Edit: I'm currently doing a re-write of this fic - for now it contains haram behaviour that I hadn't thought about while writing. That was a lack of appropriate research. Read if you would like, but keeping that in mind. Might later archive this fic. 28/11/18]“My husband is paying more attention to the man at the other table, than to me.” Valjean, whose expression was hidden from the target, winked, before tearing his hand from Javert’s, and standing with a gruff “toilet”.The Fake Married Undercover mission we're all craving.





	He Says You are Sublime

i. London

It was far, far too early in the morning. The bags under Javert’s eyes ached, if that was even possible, and he could feel the blood vessels in his eye near bursting. Well, if he was to get a red eye for his next task, then that was unavoidable.

“I am to go on a business trip,” Javert had informed Valjean last week, as they sat in Valjean's front room, television on low, both reading from separate books. 

Valjean had looked up from his book. Javert had not. 

“Oh?” Valjean prompted, sensing that the relatively common affair would not be quite so common in this instance.

“To Switzerland, for a week.”

“I’ve heard it is nice there,” Valjean said, perhaps due to a lack of anything more fulfilling to add to Javert’s notice. “I hope you enjoy what little time I am sure you’ve been granted to enjoy.” A beat, then, “I shall miss you.”

Javert, on the edge of continuing, had been taken completely by surprise by Valjean’s sentiment, and his next line came out as if in reply to Valjean’s. “I need a husband.” 

Now both taken aback, Javert found himself floundering as if a convict looking for half-truths to cover his lies. “That is to say, this trip, I am to be undercover. I was told that, as it was not a mission that was particularly dangerous, I could bring my — that is — you, should I so wish. Should  _ you  _ so wish.”

“Do you so wish?”

“I would not have asked if I did not,” Javert said, truthfully. Then, finding that hitting just too close to home, added, “More tolerable than having to spend a week with a fellow detective, that is for certain.”

“Then it would be my pleasure to perform the part, terrible actor though I am.”

_ Part _ ? Javert thought, before realising that he had quite forgotten the task for almost a half-second.  _ Husband. Jean Valjean to play the part of my husband. _

The world worked in mysterious ways.

“You are not such a terrible actor, I would say.” Javert allowed himself to look up from his, rather,  _ Valjean’s _ , novel. “You have certainly made the fool of me enough times.” 

And so they found themselves on the way to the airport at an ungodly time of the morning; Valjean fresh from a four hour power nap, Javert in a mood no matter what time of the morning he was made to get up at. It was cold enough to set Javert’s teeth to chattering despite his many layers, which he only hoped Valjean would not perceive. 

“You are cold,” Valjean said, already unwinding his scarf from his own neck. Though he had no mirror to see himself in, Javert felt his scowl was particularly venomous that morning, and certainly succeeded in stopping Valjean from his act of charity. 

-

“This is quite thrilling, isn’t it,” Valjean said, folding his passport back into his jacket pocket, rejoining Javert after passing through security. 

“Hardly.” Javert’s head was throbbing now, likely from a combination of a lack of sleep and hydration. Surrounded by airport security staff, all with their eye out for ‘suspicious’ behaviour… Javert frowned. “I would have thought you’d hate this.”

“Their job is to apprehend terrorists,” Valjean said neutrally. “As I don’t remember packing drugs nor explosives, I have nothing to fear.”

Javert might usually have interrogated Valjean’s  answer, but as it stood, it was satisfactory, and they carried forward in silence toward their gate. 

-

Valjean chuckled to himself for the third time that minute before Javert could scrape together enough will to send him a vaguely inquisitive “hm?”

“Cosette has sent me one of her memes.” Valjean angled his phone to show Javert a screenshot. ‘Find you a man who wants to get to the airport as early as you do.’ 

“We aren’t early,” Javert said, leaning back in the metal seat outside of their gate. “We arrived two hours ahead of boarding, as advised.”

Javert could tell Valjean was smiling when he said, quietly, “I think that’s the point.”

-

Though Javert usually paid for the window seat, this time he allowed Valjean into the seat first, wanting Valjean to experience the small joy of witnessing the plane take off and land. 

Valjean was disappointingly calm through take-off (Javert had been almost paralysed with fear the first dozen or so flights he had had to make,) and Javert had planned on using Valjean’s discomfort as blackmail through the rest of the trip. 

-

As they approached decent in Geneva, Javert startled awake, not having realised he had fallen asleep, and again having done so with his head resting on Valjean’s shoulder. 

Though he appreciated the close contact with his friend, he now sported a rather painful crick in his neck, which he righted himself so as to cure.

“I’m sorry,” Javert said, glancing out at the bright-white nothing of cloud-cover — presumably much the same since London. “Usually the view is magnificent.”

But Valjean turned to him, awe in his face. “Does it not look as if we are above the arctic? Pure white snow in thick drifts, untouched by man.” Valjean turned back to the window, where he remained rapt. “It  _ is  _ magnificent, Javert. Truly.” 

Valjean grasped Javert’s hand and squeezed for emphasis. When he did not let go, Javert told himself that he was only quite so pleased because it fit their disguise swimmingly. 

 

  1. Geneva



“Our first meeting is to be with the main suspect’s right-hand man. He has been seen eating at a small restaurant thrice a week for several months.” Javert led them through cobbled streets as he talked, several paces ahead of Valjean, who spent much of the walk with his eyes to the buildings, taking them in with a serene appreciation. 

“It is nice here,” Valjean said once Javert had ended his briefing.

“Were you listening to me?”

“Right-hand man, pretend to be married, engage only if provoked, yes,  _ Dear,  _ I was listening.” Javert sent Valjean a sour look, catching Valjean’s smug one in return. Valjean took his phone from his pocket and snapped a photo of a corner building — tall, old-looking, dark wooden beams between each level, each window decorated with faux shutters. Very European. How Valjean managed to remain calm in the situation, Javert longed to know. 

“I have Dubai money,” Javert said, “Rich family. You can be whatever you want, so long as you have a tight enough story.”

Valjean hummed. “I think I’d like to be a rare book collector.”

“Do you know much about rare books?”

“Enough about one particular horticulture writer to bore even the most suspicious out of a conversation.”

“Then that is fine.”

-

The restaurant,  _ Chez ma Cousine,  _ was the kind Javert imagined Cosette might like; each table, chair, plate and piece of cutlery mismatched from the rest. They were greeted in French and, Valjean a beat ahead of Javert to reply, were sat at a close two-person table. 

The menu really only had one option; a half-chicken served with country potatoes and salad, so that was what they both chose, Valjean adding that a glass of wine might be a nice accompaniment. 

Their target, a man known as Derby had arrived soon after, Javert at a good vantage to see and hear him. Proficient now at filtering Valjean out as he talked nonsense, (a pre-discussed plan,) Javert noted the way the man ordered, how he ate, how he sat. Overly confident in himself; an easy trait to exploit. 

Having ordered a bottle of wine, Valjean topped their glasses up easily, and Javert began to make his glances towards Derby more obvious; changing his demeanour from attentive husband to disinterested flirt.

After a half hour of this, Valjean let out a sigh, touching his hand to Javert’s. Despite knowing the game, the ease of the action took Javert by surprise. It seemed every nerve in his body wanted him to know that Valjean was  _ touching  _ him.

“Though I know what you’re doing, it still upsets me that you’re not listening.”

“Sorry?” Javert asked, his brain apparently not included in the list of body parts paying immediate attention to Valjean. 

“My husband is paying more attention to the man at the other table, than to me.” Valjean, whose expression was hidden from the target, winked, before tearing his hand from Javert’s, and standing with a gruff “toilet”. 

As Valjean passed Derby’s table, Javert saw the target catch Valjean’s eye, sending him a winning smile. 

No sooner had Valjean rounded the corner, Derby seated himself in Valjean’s recently empty chair. “I’m gratified it wasn’t just my mind playing tricks on me,” Derby said, leaning in close. 

Javert, quite the actor when all but Valjean were involved, knew immediately what coy glance he was supposed to send. If the target’s lick of the lips was anything to go by (and, in Javert’s experience, it was,) Javert’s expression had hit its mark. Derby took a business card from his inner jacket pocket, clicked a small pen and wrote a number below the one printed on it. 

He managed to seat himself back at his table moments before Valjean returned; an easy happenstance to fake that gave a further boost to the Derby’s ego. Valjean immediately took up Javert’s hand again, his body language this time possessive, and Javert was careful to keep his gaze steady on his husband, never wavering, even as Derby left. 

Valjean did not let go of Javert immediately, though he lessened the intensity of his grip almost instantly. They still had some wine to drink, but though they were now alone, did not dare discuss the case lest one of the target’s associates remained. 

“The food was good here, don’t you think?” Valjean asked, thumb brushing over Javert’s knuckles in a contemplative way. 

Javert could only nod, thinking to himself quite suddenly how, in less than a week, this rouse would have to end.

-

“We have some hours to kill before our next meeting, if you would like to walk…” Javert turned to Valjean, who was facing down the street outside of the restaurant, where the cobbled street wound downhill. Through the buildings, there was a shimmering glint of blue — so dazzling to be almost like the sea. 

Javert began walking towards the horizon, preferring to bypass the inevitable conversation between them, where Valjean would pretend not to want to go, and Javert would bend over backwards to assure him that he honestly did not mind the trip. 

It was mid-March, and Javert was surprised by the sun on his face. It was the perfect spring weather: cold enough to warrant a coat, but lacking a harsh wind or precipitation. They took a winding way down, through tight alleys and worn stone stairwells, passing cherry blossom trees just starting to bloom, and aptly-named road signs that Valjean begun photographing to send to Cosette and her friends. ( _ Rue de la Madeleine, Rue du Purgatoire, Rue des Barrieres) _ .

By the time they had reached the lake, it was warm enough for both men to remove their thick coats. They had found themselves at the point where the Rhone river met Lac Léman. 

“It is enormous,” Valjean said as they reached the water’s edge. Javert had little history of visiting beaches, but it reminded him of what he had seen of the Cornish coast - a small marina dotted with boats, a stone boardwalk, and water stretching so far beyond the horizon that it was almost impossible to see the water’s edge. 

And the water — crystal clear — aquamarine so clean that Javert could see the garbage-free bed of the lake below them.

“It is hard to believe that this is the center of a city,” Valjean said, almost to himself.

“It is hard to believe,” Javert echoed, “That a body of water could look so clean.” He imagined the Thames, or even the Seine looking quite so clear, and the thought was laughable. 

“I thought you only got water this colour on exotic islands,” Valjean said, taking a deep breath of air. “It makes one appreciate the allure of lake vistas on the nineteenth century painter.”

They decided to walk as far down the lake as they could in the time that they had, the pair of them silent as they considered the water. 

Every so often, they would pass an area of moored boats: some ratty, old fishing boats semi-abandoned to the docks, others brand new and freshly painted, equally abandoned and hoisted up out of the water.

“Can you imagine owning something quite like this?” Valjean asked, stopping beside a magnificent specimen of the second kind, the blue of its paint only slightly darker than the blue of the cloudless sky above them.

“No,” Javert said, “Nor do I wish to.”

“To own one? Or to imagine owning one?”

“Either.” When Valjean only hummed, Javert allowed himself to be pulled into Valjean’s thoughts. “And you? Do you harbour a secret wish to become a man of the sea?” Javert was faced with an insufferable smile on Valjean’s face, and he was forced to rethink his words. “No pun intended. Obviously.” 

“I think it is easy to imagine myself spending long afternoons out on the water when facing a lake this clean, and in weather this perfect.” 

Javert did not say anything, but a moment later, an image of Valjean, wearing a pastel-coloured polo and with a cashmere jumper draped around his neck, dropping a strange finger food into his mouth. The image made him laugh. “Yes… Yes, I can imagine it too. ...What?” Javert asked, a moment later, when he caught sight of Valjean’s smile.  

“No, sorry, I just - I thought how unsuited you would be, riding one of those.” Valjean tipped his head towards a motorbike parked beside the boat, seemingly proliferant in the area. 

“Next you’ll be picking out our house,” Javert thought, before realising that he had said the words aloud. 

“Would you be so surprised if I told you that I’d already been eyeing some?” Valjean bumped into Javert with a friendly elbow to the rib, then followed the movement through by pulling Javert’s arm through his bent elbow. 

“I doubt the good sir would send his spies this far after us, Valjean.”

“No?” Valjean seemed to consider pulling away, but only patted Javert’s arm. “Then allow an old man the small comfort of a walking aide.”

“A walking aide,” Javert said derisively, not knowing a man less in need of physical aide than Jean Valjean… but still, he too did not pull away. “As you wish, old man.”

-

Their room in Geneva would barely classify as top range in most of Derby’s associate’s books, but for Javert, it was the most exorbitant room he had ever spent the night in. 

The pair left their luggage in the doorway as they explored the three-room room they had been given — a lounge-come-kitchenette that led through to the bedroom dominated by a King-sized bed, which then led through to an ensuite bigger than Javert’s flat back at home.

“I will sleep on the couch,” Javert said as they came back to the living area and collected their belongings. “It is my case, and I must show you gratitude somehow.”

“I would appreciate the gesture more if  _ you  _ were to take the bed, Javert!”

“By your own admission, you are an old man, Valjean. The old must be treated justly.”

“That is—” Valjean began, but deflated before completing his sentence. “If you will not let me take the sofa, then please, let us share the bed. It is certainly big enough to fit us both adequately. Plus,” Valjean added, trying hard to seem as if he wasn’t simply making excuses up on the fly, “It is your case. You must regain your energy lest you let slip a vital clue.”

It was a fair argument, but Javert felt something within him curl at the thought of spending the night, an arm’s reach from the other man. “Well,” he said, “I must still make it through the evening first.” He allowed Valjean a small smile before indicating the bed. “Which side would you prefer?”

-

Javert took his turn to shower first, knowing that Valjean could do so while he was out at his ‘illicit’ meeting. He was not a man of cosmetics, as were many of Cosette’s friends, but he was a man of disguise, and so spent a half hour before the mirror, making himself as ‘alluring’ as was possible with what God had given him. 

When Javert emerged, he smelled of cologne and pomade - hair done more fashionable than usual, and sideburns clipped to be more fashionable.

Valjean openly stared as Javert exited the bathroom, a sort of mystified wonder on his face. 

“What?” Javert asked, despising being pierced so. 

“It is like a spot-the-difference puzzle. You do not look so different from usual, only…” 

“Like I’ve put more effort into myself.”

Valjean smiled a kind “yes,” before finally looking away. “What will you tell Derby? That you told your husband that you were going on a run?”

“Obviously not. That I was meeting an old friend.”

“...”

“What?” Javert asked again, seeing Valjean’s obvious displeasure at the excuse.

“No, it’s only — I would not believe you. Not after lunch.”

“So you are a jealous husband?” Javert asked, mostly out of spite. 

“Jealous, perhaps, but righteously so given the looks you were giving the man earlier.” Upon seeing Javert’s tight-lipped expression, Valjean’s shoulders deflated. “My apologies, I should trust in your experience and refrain from interfering.”

_ Yes _ , Javert wanted to gripe,  _ Perhaps you should.  _ But instead, he reached into the closet and pulled out a shirt. “So,” Javert said, carefully softening his voice, “If not an old friend?”

“We have argued.” It took a moment for Javert to realise Valjean meant that they had argued as  _ husbands,  _ not as Valjean and Javert. “I walked out, so you went to meet Derby to spite me.”

“What did we argue about?” Javert asked as he buttoned his shirt, agreeing that it was at least as sensible an excuse than any. 

“You wanted to buy a boat.”

“Me? You’re the man fascinated by them.”

“You’re the one stepping out on his husband.”

“And all men who cheat on their husbands desire cruise ships and Hors d'oeuvres? Perhaps it is true. I would not know.” Javert reached for a tie, but with his new backstory, could not decide whether it was appropriate. He stood looking at himself, occasionally bringing the tie to and from his collar. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a disconcerted Valjean. “What?” he asked once again. 

“I am bothered by my assumption. I feel judgemental.”

“One must desire something  _ more  _ to cheat on a partner,” Javert said mildly. “One could argue that someone who cheated might be escaping a toxic marriage, but for the most part, I would imagine that those cases are the minority.” 

Valjean’s expression remained unchanged, so Javert turned to him, once again indicating the tie. “Yes or no?”

“I’m hardly the height of fashion, Javert.”

“Does your husband look better with or without a tie?”

“With.” Javert blinked, not having expected such an immediate answer from a man known to dally on every decision. “That is, I think,” Valjean babbled, “The man that I am playing, your husband, would say that the closed buttons of your shirt…” Valjean closed his mouth suddenly. “It suits you.” 

“Oh,” Javert said, eloquent as always. “Then that is good,” he said, beginning to tie his tie. “Would you like me to bring you back some food?”

“No. Thank you. I will… I might go for a walk.” 

“Perhaps you should storm out,” Javert said with a wry grin. “Treat it as an exercise to help with my story.”

“What should I say?” Valjean asked, before coming to a realisation. Twisting his tone to be far more sardonic, Valjean repeated himself, louder. “What should I say!” 

“What?” Javert asked, rising to his tone.

“If I’ve done something to you, if you’re unhappy with me, tell me, because I don’t know how long I can deal with these lies.”

“You haven’t done anything.”

“Every time I look at you, you avoid my eye. Every time I touch you, you pull away.” 

“You’re imagining things.”

“I saw you looking at him,  _ Dear _ , don’t give me that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” 

“I love you. It hurts so much to pretend that I do not.”

Javert, so taken in by this fiction, knew what would devastate his husband the most at that moment. He laughed. 

“Right,” Valjean said, looking as thoroughly defeated as his character might. “Where would you like to go for dinner?”

“Dinner?” Javert repeated, apathetic. 

“I cannot believe you!” Valjean said, voice once again raised to a max, before adding a quieter “It’s our  _ anniversary _ ,  _ Dear _ .” Valjean let that sit between them. “I’m going out. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Valjean gathered his coat and keys, then slammed the door behind him. 

Javert stared at the door, vaguely amazed at the upgrade in Valjean’s acting prowess, and the ease with which he was able to add subtle upgrades to their story. He was pulled out of his thoughts by his phone buzzing; a text from Valjean. 

[ _ Valjean: You know, the first rule of improv is ‘don’t say no’. _ ] 

[ _ Valjean: That’s what Courfeyrac - the one with the hair - has taught me, anyway. _ ]

[ _ Valjean: Sorry, I’ll stop texting you, but the fight has made me nervous, haha. I have so much energy now. _ ] 

[ _ Javert: ‘Don’t say no’? _ ]

[ _ Valjean: ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ It makes it hard to think of a comeback on the spot, haha, giving me a run for my money! _ ]

Javert, not knowing how to reply, satisfied himself that the conversation would be considered over with a ‘read receipt’. He closed the conversation and opened a new message to the number he had saved on the walk over. 

[ _ Javert: I’ll be at the xx Hotel bar. _ ]

-

[ _ Javert: When did we meet? And where? _ ]

Javert put his phone on the bar counter before him, and was about to immediately say ‘don’t worry if you’re busy’ when the three dots indicating Valjean’s typing popped up. Javert waited for several minutes, watching the dots jump up and down, wondering what on earth Valjean could be typing when his message appeared.

[ _ Valjean: I was just thinking the same. I’m at the lake, by the way, it’s quite conducive to thinking. I thought it might be a nice callback should we have met in Geneva, or elsewhere in Switzerland, since it is our anniversary. Perhaps we were married here, too. But we could also bury the falsehood in truth: ‘we met in the South of France’ would seem romantic. _ ] 

[ _ Valjean: *could. _ ]

[ _ Valjean _ :  _ Just googled, same-sex marriage isn’t legal here. _ ]

[ _ Javert: France, then. _ ]

[ _ Javert: How? _ ]

[ _ Valjean: Coffee shop meet-cute? _ ]

[ _ Valjean: you just thought: ‘those words mean nothing to me’ _ ]

[ _ Valjean: You met me at the height of my political career. _ ]

[ _ Valjean: that one was a joke. _ ]

[ _ Valjean: We met at a party (jail, haha) through mutual friends. Became friends (M-sur-M), married last year after the barricades when we realised life was too short? _ ]

[ _ Valjean: or taking from B99 - married in ‘13 as soon as France legalised marriage. _ ]

[ _ Valjean: Brooklyn Nine-Nine, we watched it together, you were pretending not to watch but you appreciated Captain Holt’s dedication. _ ]

[ _ Javert: I remember. Thank you, that was helpful. _ ]

[ _ Valjean: Be careful, Javert. _ ]

[ _ Valjean: :) _ ] 

Valjean’s emoticon was his equivalent of Javert’s read receipt, so Javert locked his phone, adopting a more casual demeanour and ordering himself an overpriced cocktail. 

 

iii. Geneva

As the train passed out of the city and through smaller towns, it hugged the shore of Lac Léman. Javert kept catching sight of glimpses of lake-side houses, the blue as rich as the sea, and in the distance, snow-topped mountains. 

“The plan did not go well?” Valjean asked, an hour or so into their journey.

Javert had arrived back at the hotel long after Valjean had gone to bed, the other man already asleep. With their train leaving early in the morning, they had packed in silence, Valjean respecting Javert’s need not to speak until he was comfortable.

“No,” Javert said, “It went perfectly. He believed the argument. Even offered to purchase me a ship, which I believe was a euphemism, though I cannot figure it out.”

“Oh, then that is good! I’m glad to have been some help. ...But?”

“Nothing.” When Valjean did not look away, Javert found himself reaching for the easy excuse. “I am just tired.”

The meeting last night had in truth been successful. Javert’s only problem was that it had been so easy to convince himself married to Valjean that he had begun veering ever closer to the truth with Derby, using real instances between them to describe times he had been angered by, or even incredibly in love with, his husband. 

The plan had always been to seem like a hard catch, so that the target thought himself the active partner in getting Javert to slip, but over the course of the evening, Javert began to realise that Derby was far more interested in hearing of Valjean’s finer points than on his negatives.

“Perhaps you and he would enjoy meeting my friends,” Derby had said, real sympathy in his voice. “While I was flattered you showed interest in me, I really couldn’t come between you and your husband, when you so obviously love each other.” Derby had smiled at Javert’s appalled face. “I have aparty this weekend. Bring him along, and if you really can’t work out your troubles, you can use my shoulder to cry on.”

This party had been the very one his real target, Notts would be at, the one Javert would have been lucky to have been invited to alone. ‘ _ You so obviously love each other _ ’. 

Javert had exaggerated some instances, of course, made stories more pretty and simplified their past, but not so much that his true feelings for Valjean would be unrecognisable. 

Which meant — 

Valjean patted Javert’s knee, an obvious attempt to console Javert for whatever he was thinking. Javert felt his face light on fire, but could not well move away from Valjean lest he risk being asked more damned questions. 

 

  1. Lausanne



The sun was beginning to set as they pulled into Lausanne; the lake gaining a ghostly grey under the butter yellow sky. The buildings here reminded Javert of Paris, or what little of it Javert had seen. Tall, pastel-coloured apartment buildings whose windows were lined with ornate metal railings. 

It was not hard to imagine Valjean living here. 

It was not hard imagining Javert joining him. 

 

  1. Zermatt



“I find mountains… fortifying.” Valjean was sat on the veranda attached to their bedroom, arms crossed on the rail as he stared out at the mountains beyond them. “When you look at them, it is as if they are saying ‘here we are! here we have been! here we will always be! They are so… I want to say ‘big’, but I know there’s a better word.”

“That is a good observation,” Javert said from inside the room, ironing a shirt for the party that evening, “Mountains certainly are  _ big,  _ Valjean.”

“Big. Enormous. Grand? Grandiose?” Valjean hummed to himself. “Terrifying but peaceful.”

“I would be remiss if I did not mention,” Javert said, glancing up to look at Valjean, “That you sound as if you are talking about yourself.”

Valjean hefted a deep sigh at that, apparently knocked out his mood. He stood, coming inside. 

“Are you ironing my shirt?”

“Yes.” Javert lifted the iron. “Should I not?”   
“No, no, thank you. It’s — I have not seen you be quite so… domestic.”

“You do the dishes, and I iron our clothes.”

“This feels like an unfair division of labour.”

“I also dry the dishes, while you do the laundry.”

“You hang the laundry, and I do the grocery shop.”

“...We share cooking depending on who has what shift. Fair?”

Valjean smiled, folding the shirts Javert had already ironed. “Do you always discuss backstories to this extent when you’re in disguise?” 

“You’re my first husband,” Javert said, flipping the shirt to iron the other arm. “I’ve had to feign interest in female sergeants before, but those tend to go smoother when one adheres to expectations. Namely, misogynistic old alcoholic with a younger, prettier, house-bound wife. It’s taken for granted that I do not know how to iron.”

“I am uncomfortable with so much of that sentence, I’m not sure where to start.” 

Javert could sense the conversation closing in on his recently-discovered sensitivities, but could not stop himself from flying too close to the sun. “I find chronological order is often underappreciated.”

“That’s... that is a very Javert thing of you to say,” Valjean said. “But very well. One, ‘feign’?”

“I have no interest in women.” Javert unplugged the iron, using the task to avoid looking at Valjean. “It would also be inappropriate to have interest in a fellow officer.”

“Then second,  _ ‘female _ sergeant’?”

“Again, it is easy to pander to expectations. ‘Heterosexuality as norm’.” 

Javert could feel Valjean’s eyes on his back and came to the realisation that while Valjean was kindly to Cosette’s majority-queer friends, Valjean could be so without sharing a bed with them. Or, as it turned out, being forced to fake a marriage with them. “For what it’s worth,” Javert added, “I have no interest in men either.”  _ Just one in particular,  _ but Valjean needn’t know that _.  _

“And ‘old alcoholic’?”

“Apparently something about my face screams ‘bitter and repressed’,” Javert said, all the while thinking  _ he did not react to my coming out.  _ Was that a good thing? Was it bad? Had Valjean guessed Javert’s orientation, even before he had himself? Was he simply too kind to mention it, but was secretly counting down the hours until he could return to his single bed?

“To be fair,” Valjean said in his trademark ‘I’m an innocent, unassuming old man’ voice, “It was only a couple of years ago that I thought the same. Do you tend to let out your domestic side around your sargeants?” 

“I don’t  _ have  _ a domestic side.”

“And this is why you are typecast.”

“I do not have a ‘domestic side’, Valjean.”

“Would it be so bad if you did?”

“What need would there be for it? I live alone and have very few possessions.”

“And if you were to not live alone?”

“I cannot even imagine it.”

“You would not like to? Ever?”

“Valjean, you are the only man — the only  _ person  _ I am on speaking terms with outside of my colleagues, who I am literally paid to spend time with. Unless you or they were to suddenly ask me to move in, which I highly doubt, there is very little need for this hypothetical question.”

“Right.”

“You sound disconcerted. Have I said something problematic?”

“No,” Valjean said with a small smile as Javert finally turned to him. “Not at all.”

“You are upset with me,” Javert said, honestly not knowing what part of his statement had so affected Valjean. “Tell me so we can remedy this.”

“It is nothing,” Valjean said, taking his shirt from the folded pile, “Honestly. We should get ready for the party, or we might be late.”

Valjean was not wrong, but it felt uncomfortable, leaving the conversation where it was. “We shall seem at odds at the party if you don’t tell me now,” Javert said, wanting desperately to know how he had offended his friend.

“Perhaps it will work well with our disguise,” Valjean said, the same damned smile on his face. “We  _ are _ supposed to be arguing.”

“Are we arguing?” Javert asked, suddenly much more worried about what he had said.

“No, Javert, we’re not arguing. I just... I am just overthinking something, which is entirely my own fault.”

Javert could not help but think Valjean was not telling the truth, but with Valjean as he was, it would be impossible to get an honest answer out of him. “Fine,” he conceded, “But you will tell me what I did wrong later.”

“Of course.” Valjean grabbed his towel and toiletries. “I’m going to shower first, if you don’t mind.”

Javert waved him off, sitting on the bed in Valjean’s stead. Thinking on Valjean’s shift in attitude concerned Javert, so instead he removed his file on Notts from his luggage, going over the words he had long-since memorised in an attempt to quiet his aching mind.

 

  1. Zermatt



This area was a far cry from the cities Javert had lived in his entire life. The air felt clear to breathe, lacking the smell of diesel and smog Javert was so used to. As they walked to Notts’ chalet they passed through a thick, picturesque forest of enormous pines, a walking path of trampled dirt their only direction. The forest floor beneath them gave a satisfying crunch, the leaves already having begun to frost over in the evening chill. 

Higher in the mountains, the pines were topped with thick crests of snow, mimicking many of the Christmas cards Javert had been given by HR over the years. And the smell of pine — something Javert had only ever smelt when passing the tree that went up outside the station each December. 

Javert had long-since known that his life  _ was  _ his job. He had dedicated his life, his soul to his work. He did not think it sad that every memory attached to the sights and smells of the forest related to policing, or to the police station. 

But, as they hiked up the hill, he kept returning to the same thought; whether Valjean had lived in a forested area like this as a child, or whether the countryside he had known was closer to farmed fields. What memory did the smell of pine bring Valjean — his childhood as a tree pruner? or perhaps he thought of Cosette’s childhood. He wondered whether the child had ever wanted a Christmas tree, as he was sure many of her friends did. He wondered whether Valjean had ever put one up despite his faith: Javert knew from Valjean’s accounts that Cosette had been a precocious child, and one who was too willingly encouraged by her doting father. 

But, he also knew that Valjean had been careful to give Cosette a religious, but non-denotational upbringing. Whether she chose Islam as her father had, or if she decided to explore faiths that spoke closer to her own beliefs, Valjean would have helped her. Accepted her. Perhaps one year, Cosette had wanted a Christian Christmas, and Valjean had given it to her. 

Or maybe Valjean did not think of anything as he walked, just slightly ahead of Javert. Perhaps his mind was with the clouds as it had been in the plane, or with the mountains as it had been at the hotel. Or perhaps Valjean was still mulling through their quasi-argument. 

It infuriated Javert not to know — though he wouldn’t claim to understand them, he was always adept at second-guessing the minds of his targets. It had always been an advantage in his police work, and when attempting to wade through the mire of smalltalk at mandatory events. But his one exception, in all his years, had been Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean, who could be thinking of the smell of pine, or of the chill in the air, or of Cosette, or of their disguise, or of the fact that he would have to share a bed with a perhaps too-inebriated Javert later that night. 

Javert longed to ask, but how to do so without picking at the scab that was their last conversation? It would seem as if he was impatient, not letting Valjean come to the problem in his own time. Any attempt from an alternate direction ( _ it is cold tonight, the air here is fresh, does your daughter celebrate Christmas? _ ) sounded like a cheap attempt at smalltalk, something they should have been quite beyond in their now multiple years of friendship. 

Javert pulled at the hairs of his sideburns, as if neatening them. 

“You’ll pull them out, Javert.” Javert blinked back to the present, where Valjean was continuing up the path, as if nothing had happened. He must have glanced back while Javert’s attention was held by the forest floor. 

“Don’t gripe at me, Valjean.”

“I’m not griping,” Valjean replied, his tone far from the childish one Javert had dipped into. 

“I’m not pulling.” Javert dug his hands into his pockets out of spite. Having unconsciously put more space between them, Javert picked up his pace so as to be parallel with Valjean. 

“How did you convince me to come to this party?” Valjean asked, after they had walked a bit further up the path. “Your husband, that is. Have you lied about whose presence we are to be in? Will it be a nasty ‘coincidence’?” 

“I asked whether you’d like to attend out of spite. You agreed, also out of a desire to spite me.”

“Do you still love me?”

“Do  _ you _ ?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes.”

Valjean nodded. “So this spite that we share…”

“A miscommunication, perhaps.”

“You have read my solemnity as boredom with the relationship. You have been acting out so as to make me remember what we once had.”

“Your solemnity is because you feel you are not as loving as you once were, and do not know how to remedy this.” 

“Perhaps we should become playwrights,” Valjean joked. 

Javert could sense some of the air between them clearing, and he longed to make sure it would stay that way. “Perhaps marriage counsellors.” He flicked Valjean a small grin, and was gratified to get one back. 

“So. Do we pretend we’ve kissed and made up?” 

“It might be advantageous if we were together the entire evening.” Javert kept his eyes ahead, finally catching sight of the Notts’ chalet. “Just in case.”

“I see. Just in case.”

Now side by side with Valjean, Javert felt a light brush at his hand — and took Valjean’s outstretched hand in his own.

 

vii. Zermatt

Javert found Valjean on the patio, late in the evening, after most had exchanged conversation and champagne for harder liquors and the dance floor. He was basking in the warmth of an outdoor heater, lit in the warm orange glow as he stared up at the night sky. 

The stars were glittering in the dark, far from the pollution of the city. Valjean had not noticed him, yet, so Javert used the rare opportunity to look at the man. Beautifully content, at peace in the moment. Beautiful, full stop. Javert felt warm at the thought, wanting more than anything to be able to approach Valjean, to lean against him in the dark, to… rely on him as he had been this week. As a husband.

Javert shivered. How dangerous this was becoming. 

“Getting too rowdy for you?” Valjean asked as Javert approached, Javert doing his best to keep a modest gap between them. 

“I think we have what we need for now.” 

“Well then, good job.” Valjean’s smile was slightly sleepy, induced, no doubt, from the several glasses of champagne he’d been convinced to partake in. “Come under the heater, it’s cold out here.” 

_ Like a moth to a flame _ , Javert thought as he did as Valjean said, huddling closer to him. 

“I cannot decide,” Valjean said, once again taking Javert’s hand, “Whether Geneva was too perfect because I was blinded with awe on a perfect spring day, or because there is something more sinister happening.” 

“If you’re not careful, you’ll end up a conspiracy theorist with Bossuet and Joly.” 

“I mean it. I did not see a single homeless person in the entire city. I refuse to believe that that is because they do not exist.”

“The cost of living is extremely high,” Javert said, considering the problem. “Likely the rate of gentrification in the area has forced even the homeless out of the city.”

“It just seems to… corrupt,” Valjean mused, “That Geneva, the home of idealisim, would be so… ideal. Utopian, even. Clear blue water, clean streets lacking those who must resort to begging. So perfect, to seem almost hostile.” 

“Hmm,” Javert agreed, casting his mind back to the city. He had to admit, he’d not even clocked the disparity.

Javert’s more pressing issue was that he had caught sight of Valjean’s lips while the man had been speaking, and Javert found himself magnetised by them, eyes focused where Valjean’s facial hair met his top lip. How Javert wanted to kiss him there, to feel the course hair of Valjean’s moustache against his own lips. 

“I have to say, I am wildly jealous.” 

Javert pulled away from Valjean on instinct, spell instantly broken by the stranger’s voice, but Valjean’s arm came to rest on his waist, pulling him closer. 

“Yes, don’t stop on my behalf.” The stranger — no, the first target Derby, was stood with a cigarette between his fingers, lighter in his other hand. “Sorry, it must seem like I’m a great voyeur. I swear I’m here because of much more innocent vices.” He lit his cigarette, coming to stand beside the pair and staring out at the distant village lights.

“Wildly jealous, but mighty glad that you’ve found such a great partnership.” 

Javert felt Valjean’s fingers press into his side, powerful even through his thick coat.

“Don’t you worry,  _ husband _ , I’m not here to steal him away.” Derby tapped his cigarette against the stone wall, before taking another pull. “Notts likes you guys. Says if you’re ever in Zurich, he’d love to invite you for dinner at a restaurant he’s involved with.”

“Us?” Valjean asked, making the word seem accusative. 

“Yes, you, and plural too. Don’t you worry, Husband, he’s not like us. No big plans to steal your beloved away. He likes interesting stories, and he’s a romantic at heart. He wants you to tell him all about how you first met, the Dubai prince and the French rarity collector. It’s all very, what did he say...” Derby cast his mind back, before adding a successful “‘Sublime’. He says you are sublime.” 

-

“He is still watching us,” Valjean said, focused on Javert but watching Derby watch them through the windows. 

“Then perhaps,” Javert said, the thrum of alcohol and success mingling to create a powerful force within him, “We should dispell any lingering thoughts he has about my availability.” Javert did not look away from Valjean, safe with the thought that, even if Valjean rejected him this, he could claim a disguise: badly formed and drunken. He allowed his eyes to rest on Valjean’s lips, then back up to Valjean’s eyes. He wore the same expression his targets got sometimes, when they had been charmed by Javert. 

Damn if Valjean was not a good actor, Javert thought, even as Valjean’s hand came to rest on Javert’s cheek, fingers brushing through the hairs behind Javert’s ear. Javert leaned into the touch, then followed Valjean’s hand as he led Javert closer, and into a kiss. 

Both men’s eyes closed and both exhaled through their noses at the touch, the kiss soft and careful, their sighs a matching pair of satisfaction. Javert rested his own hands on Valjean’s hips, not at all minding Valjean’s directing the kiss with the hand still in Javert’s hair, keeping them in continuous contact, Valjean’s other hand on the small of Javert’s back.  

Their second kiss was just as soft, Valjean tilting Javert’s head slightly to make the action more comfortable. The sensation of Valjean’s rough beard on Javert’s lips proved to be a more than satisfactory sensation, made all the better in a slightly rougher third kiss. 

“Javert,” Valjean said as he pulled back, if only to bury his face in Javert’s neck, ghosting unheard words into Javert’s skin and sending a shiver through Javert’s body as lips touched skin. Both of Valjean’s arms were at the small of Javert’s back now, under his coat, fingers gripped to the material of Javert’s jumper, the material pressing into Javert’s skin. 

Javert’s own hands came up from Valjean’s waist, curling his fingers in Valjean’s soft curls, nails lightly scraping Valjean’s scalp as he brushed through them. 

“I don’t want this to end,” Valjean said, a little louder. He then let the pressure from his muscles relax, allowing Javert to pull away, should he so wish. Javert did not.

“Shall we go home?” Javert asked, noticing small things about his friend that he had not allowed himself to notice before. How nice Valjean smelt; of his shampoo and his laundry detergent, how his skin was warm and his neck soft. 

 

viii. Zermatt

The walk back down the mountain seemed shorter than the walk up; whether because the level of physical exertion was lesser, or because the atmosphere between the pair, Javert couldn't care less. 

-

Valjean sat on the edge of the bed, Javert stood between his legs, half on top of him. They remained so for a long while, both content to kiss and to be kissed, until they conceded that it was getting late. They lay underneath the covers together, pyjamas on and teeth brushed, and Javert used his last shred of confidence to reach out and clasp Valjean’s hand under the sheets. 

“I have an admission to make,” Valjean whispered into the darkness, thumb stroking over Javert’s knuckles,    
“Hmm?”

“I have greatly enjoyed having you as a husband.”

Javert smiled, comfortable doing so with the darkness hiding him. He felt warm and, for the first time in a truly long time, safe. It was silly, but he felt the first words to come to mind felt the most genuine. “You smell nice,” he said, already half asleep. 

Both men slept soundly. 

 

viiii. Zurich.

“Switzerland really is mostly just bodies of water and mountains.” Valjean looked out at the lake the tram they were riding in ran parallel to, not nearly as clear or as perfect-seeming as Geneva, but certainly miles above the Seine. 

“I almost feel uncomfortable being in a city, now. It feels a shame to breathe, as if ruining the hard work my lungs have done with week in expelling London air.”

“Perhaps we should make a break for the mountains, while we still can.”

Javert humoured Valjean with a small snort of laughter, even while removing his mobile. A message from work, reminding him of the gravity of the situation. Or, well, not for long. “She says they have enough on him so far that we needn’t risk dinner. Says it is unwise entering his territory anyway, and that we are relieved.”

“The case is over!” Valjean exclaimed, sounding pleased. “We should go for a celebratory dinner anyway.” 

“The station most definitely will not pay,” Javert said, feeling rather like his gut was being squeezed by an invisible force. The case was over, which meant returning from this dream of bliss to the monotonous hardship of real life. 

“Javert,” Valjean reprimanded, grasping Javert’s hand. “I can almost hear what you are thinking. The case being over changes nothing.”

“Won’t it?”

“...Only for the better. For instance,” Valjean said, “I would quite enjoy watching you get dressed in your uniform each morning, which I cannot do in a hotel in Switzerland.”

“The department would never let me live this down…”

“Javert. Would you like to go for dinner with me?” Valjean asked, “Yes or no.”

Javert thought. He thought about more than fifty years spent alone, in hatred. He thought about the Thames, the Seine, and Lac Léman. About Valjean, his compassion and his religion, and his smell. 

“Yes.”

“Then I shall book us a table.” Valjean took out his mobile. “I’ll ask Cosette if Marius has any recommendations.” 

-

Marius did not have recommendations, but his grandfather had, and had taken the liberty of booking a private table at a restaurant twice awarded a Michelin star. 

The restaurant served them over a dozen microscopic meals, each plate far larger than the foodstuff it contained, the white china decorated with multi-coloured foams and smears and sauces and flavours.

Neither Valjean nor Javert were the kind of people for whom the flavours on display were particularly attractive, and both were incredibly uncomfortable with the idea of being VIPs, and so they suffered the meals together, silently asking one another what it was exactly that they were eating, and sending the waiting staff kind, but not particularly eager looks. 

“I think I enjoyed the first dish the most,” Valjean said on their walk home, his arm through the crook of Javert’s.

“The first?” Javert asked, attempting to cast his mind back. It seemed to him as if the dishes had blurred into one large mess in his mind. Then it hit him. “The basket of  _ bread _ , Valjean?”

“Yes,” Valjean said, hiding the hint of shit-eating grin very carefully. “You cannot really ruin bread.”

“It was  _ bread _ .”

“At least I knew what it was.”

“You sound like an old man.” Javert shook his head. “I will inform Marius’ dearest grandfather how little you appreciated his kind gesture and get you in trouble.”

“Will you really,” Valjean asked, not at all threatened. “And run the risk of having him invite you to more intolerable restaurants? Perhaps you could go on dinner dates together, two elderly men with their superior palettes.”

“I don’t respond well to blackmail, Jean Valjean.”

“You are ridiculous, Javert.”

“You liked the  _ bread _ !”

“And which dish did you find the best?”

Well, Javert was beat there. “The bread really was baked well…”

x. London

Javert’s body shook with the movement of the tube, swaying left to right, back and forth by the momentum of the underground carriage. 

In retrospect, taking the tube home on a Saturday evening was perhaps not the wisest decision Javert had made that day. A group of youths to the leftmost section of the carriage were playing some obscure song through a large external speaker, the group of them laughing over some unheard joke. People crammed from every which way, smelling of sweat, and alcohol, tobacco and other, less legal smokeables. 

A man sat beside Javert was heartily tucking into a late evening dinner of some fast food from a box branded with the logo of some corner chicken shop. Javert did not hide his disdain for the man’s choice, pulling his scarf up to cover his mouth and nose, despite the oppressive heat of the carriage. Javert had an end seat - lucky enough to be able to press against the imitation-glass segment away from the chicken man. 

Javert avoided his pavlovian instinct to glance up at the man sat opposite him. The hulking man was huddled in on himself, bundling coat and bag to his person so as to fit better into the seat. Valjean looked twitchy and, though Javert had his earphones plugged in, he could posit that it was because the man’s attempt to get one of the people around him to sit had been denied each time with a patronising ‘no, Sir, don’t worry about us!’ Little did the partygoers know what strength the ‘senile’ elder still held. 

Javert masked a self-amused huff of laughter as a sniff, as if still cold from the winter air outside, digging himself further into his many layers. He glanced up as the tube pulled into the next station —  _ Chalk Farm —  _ counting down the minutes until he was free from the confines of being in public. 

He adjusted his earphones — a gift from Valjean a year previously. Javert could not tolerate the noise of the underground as it sped through tunnels, but had equally hated the sensation of noise-cancelling earbuds. He was also stubborn enough not to have invested in a music player himself, so had come to reluctantly agree to using Valjean’s gift — an ipod loaded with music of various tastes. 

Valjean had admitted himself a poor taste in music: un-knowledgeable both in Classical and contemporary tunes, so had simply loaded an eclectic mix of songs he found he liked from Cosette’s itunes. Valjean had apologised profusely for his choice, had encouraged Javert to delete songs as he desired. Javert told him he would never do such a thing. Unintended or not, Valjean had crafted this mix for him.

Though usually Javert might close his eyes and do his best to ignore the world around him, today he found even the lulling tunes no respite from his anxieties. Again and again, he found himself watching the teens, part of him longing — really, longing, to be as he once was. Less than three years ago, Javert’s course of option would have been easy. They were violating at least three laws and several TFL-set rules punishable by hefty fines —  _ Belsize Park —  _ thirty eight minutes until home, thirty three if he could get Valjean not to amble on the walk back — though he might not have arrested them, he would have threatened to just to give the rest of the tube-goers some peace.

Peace. Javert glanced at the rest of the passengers individually — late workers, perhaps, or people who’d met friends for the first time after a number of years… None seemed particularly offended by the noise given off by the teens. Again, his eyes were drawn back to them: seemingly carefree, their light atmosphere and easy smiles shifting in and out of bouts of laughter. No, their making noise did not offend nor disgust Javert, as he once would have easily said it did.

Like Pavlov’s bell, the thought of  _ consideration  _ crossed Javert’s mind, and he found himself looking to Valjean, opposite him, who blinked to be so suddenly caught. Caught watching Javert with that  _ intolerable _ smile. Valjean did not miss a beat despite his red-handedness, and mouthed ‘okay’? 

Javert rolled his eyes; an instinctual reaction where Valjean was concerned, and closed his eyes, as if about to take a nap. 

_ Consideration. Javert had become considerate.  _

-

Javert woke to the warmth of a leg against his own —  _ Colindale —  _ and found Valjean gone from the seat opposite him. Immediately disorientated, he went to pull himself away from the warmth of the body beside him, only to find it was Valjean, and not the chicken man, who was curled in on him, head bowed against his broad chest. 

So the pair of them had been lulled asleep like old men. 

 

xi. London

They shared a kitchen now. A home, too. Javert made them both warm drinks, earphones still in from the tube. He startled when Valjean wrapped his arms around Javert’s waist, resting his forehead on Javert’s shoulder. It was an odd feeling — Javert could feel Valjean’s very smile through his shirt. 

Javert pulled at the cords of his earphones, winding them slowly so as to not disturb Valjean’s arms. “And what have you got to be grinning about?”

“I have wanted to do this for a very long time.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Guys. I have a podcast about Les Mis. I know, what a nerd. Next episode, we talk to AutumnGracy about Valvert. Keep your ears peeled.
> 
> https://lesmispodcast.podbean.com or Bread & Barricades: A Les Mis Podcast wherever you get your podcasts.
> 
> [Edit: I'm currently doing a re-write of this fic - for now it contains haram behaviour that I hadn't thought about while writing. That was a lack of appropriate research. Read if you would like, but keeping that in mind. Might later archive this fic. 28/11/18]


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